


Warm and Lazy and Lucky

by penlex



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: FWP, Fluff, Gen, Holidays, M/M, Sharing a Bed, Winter, as in Fluff Without Plot, homeless!Derek, non-au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-23
Updated: 2013-12-23
Packaged: 2018-01-05 18:17:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1097112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/penlex/pseuds/penlex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When he can finally see past his own blind Bambi panic, Stiles is met with the lovely first-thing-in-the-morning image of a wolfed-out Derek Hale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Warm and Lazy and Lucky

Stiles is experiencing that wonderful phenomenon of waking up slowly in an amazing cocoon of warmth that is made all the warmer by the chill on just the other side of his fluffy comforter. It’s the first glorious Monday of winter break. The house is empty and Stiles doesn’t have to be anywhere for any reason all day long. He could, conceivably, jerk off eight times today, if he wanted.

On that wistful thought, Stiles takes a deep, invigorating breath and curls his toes, stretching out his torso and legs without really moving his body at all. The rush of cool air into his nostrils nips at his nose, and he smiles sleepily and burrows down further into his plush haven before blinking his relaxed eyelids open with halfway deliberate slowness.

It takes Stiles all of three seconds to realize there is something dark and fuzzy in front of his face, and all of his leisureliness and lazy man’s joy evaporates quicker than his heart is beating. He lets out a very manly shriek and flails backward, but the weight of the foreign object on his bed traps him under his blankets, his long limbs tangled so much that he feels like Bambi when he tried to walk on ice.

When he can finally see past his own blind Bambi panic, Stiles is met with the lovely first-thing-in-the-morning image of a wolfed-out Derek Hale.

Derek is on all fours, fully clothed - shoes and all, on top of Stiles’s covers. His eyes are flicking around the room, clearly searching for the threat that made Stiles scream, wide and red. His coarse fur has an odd effect because it makes his face seem heart shaped, which clashes definitively with the vicious fangs that press into his bottom lip as he pants harshly like a frightened, enraged, or overheated dog. Eventually, Derek’s wild eyes land on Stiles and they stare at each other for long silent moments before Derek slowly melts back into a stubbly green-eyed human.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" Stiles says. His voice is remarkably calm for the fright he just had and the anger he should probably be feeling right about now, and he figures he probably is experiencing some mild form of shock - like of the kind where you see something in the dark and then realize it’s just your giant pile of laundry but then you can’t sleep for the rest of the night anyway and you just feel vaguely like a total idiot. A scared, pathetic idiot.

Derek just continues to stare at Stiles for long enough that Stiles thinks maybe he might be stuck or something? but then he finally answers - resentfully, and with no small amount of defensiveness - “It’s cold.”

Stiles is about to quip back something in the general family of “No shit, Sherlock” when he happens to see that beyond Derek’s tense shoulders his window is piled with snow with flurries floating along behind the mini winter landscape on the sill, and he remembers that the Hale house clearly does not have any heat - or blankets, or anything at all - and if Derek isn’t staying there Stiles has no idea where.

Homeless. Derek is homeless, and it’s cold.

Past the ache of the squishy empathy in his (apparently bleeding) heart, Stiles grasps desperately for some sarcastic bravado and comes up with, “Well, get under the covers, you asshole,” tugging at his comforter which obviously doesn’t budge an inch under Derek’s weight. “You’re constricting me. I’m constricted here.”

When Derek shifts to allow the blanket to move, Stiles throws himself on his other side and buries his face - cheeks hot, nose cold - in his pillow and manfully ignores the two gentle thumps of Derek’s shoes landing on the floor. He does his best not to think about Derek’s sock feet, because _it’s Derek_ , and absolutely does not revel in the extra body heat Derek adds to the winter break bundle.

"Thanks," Derek breathes, and Stiles pretends to have already gone back to sleep.

Derek is still there when Stiles wakes up again a few hours later. It’s hot under the blankets now, almost too hot, but Stiles is too lazy and comfortable for it to really be unpleasant. Derek is fast asleep, and he looks… soft. Incredibly soft. Like it would maybe be fun to pet him. Stiles makes a face at the thought because _what the fuck??_ but can’t bring himself to get out of bed, or even look away.

Derek, apparently, has one hundred percent perfect skin. Like, Disney Princess perfect. He could literally be Snow White. Hunky Werewolf Snow White. His eyelashes are so thick and dark they seem somehow infinite, and his hair fluffy without product and it’s sticking up on the top of his head like a strangely placed black bunny tail. His eyes move irregularly underneath his lids, which look a little bruised and thin. The slope of his nose is sharp, leading like a compass arrow to his slightly parted, very chapped lips. Stiles’s fingers twitch with the (frankly disturbing, creepy, and weird) desire to trace every line of Derek’s face.

Derek sniffs suddenly, sighs, snuggles deeper into the comforter, and makes a low and suspiciously canine sound in his throat. Stiles physically has to hold his breath to avoid letting out a very embarrassing squeal and/or an obnoxious _aaaawwwwwww_ like grannies and teen girls make at toddlers and puppies.

Eventually Stiles has to get up or he’ll go crazy. He grabs some cleanish clothes from the floor near his dresser and changes into them in the bathroom after a quick shower. For some reason (one that maybe is not so mysterious, but which Stiles refuses to examine), Stiles is unwilling to leave Derek alone for long, wants to be there to see him wake up ( _will he snap awake and sit straight up like the Undertaker, will he yawn and stretch, will he roll out of bed and stumble onto his feet with his eyes still closed?_ ).

Derek stays asleep for several hours, during which Stiles plays some WoW, IMs with an online buddy, and does some idle supernatural research. Stiles is aggressively glad of the miraculous luck he has that there’s nothing important or life threatening happening in Beacon Hills over winter break, and he refuses to say anything about it out loud in case he jinxes it, and if anyone else starts to mention it he will punch them either in their throat or their genitals - or maybe both because seriously how dare they. When Derek finally does rejoin the land of the living Stiles’s back is turned and he misses it (which he will never admit how much he regrets), and the first thing out of his mouth is, “Do you have any eggs.”

Stiles is about to lecture him on morning etiquette because wow rude, but when he spins around dramatically in his desk chair he sees something a little like guilt in Derek’s eyes that he only recognizes because nowadays it takes him like fifteen minutes staring in a mirror to get his hair right, and he realizes that “Do you have any eggs.” is the pathetic Derek Hale version of “I owe you. Let me cook you breakfast.”

Technically it’s way too late in the day for breakfast, but Stiles says, “Yes.”

Derek doesn’t leave after breakfast, and they both just casually don’t mention it. Derek quietly watches Stiles tidy the downstairs from the dining room in his sleep rumpled yesterday clothes, and Stiles opens his mouth probably around eighty-seven times to suggest that Derek borrow some of his own clean ones but changes his mind at the last minute every time.

Derek is in his sock feet. His socks are heather grey. He looks incredibly soft. Stiles wants to pet him, but dusts instead.

Derek leaves sometime around four in the evening, when the sun is setting and the sky should be buttery but the cold somehow magically makes it feel like it’s all cool colors everywhere. Stiles makes him take some of the extra French toast, feels like his mother, feels like asking Derek to stay, feels stupid.

But then he wakes up to a brief, frigid breeze and the wooden slide of his window being shut, to Derek in a different sweater and with fresh snow melting in his hair toeing off his shoes with two soft thumps and climbing under the covers.

Stiles smiles sleepily, and feels warm and lazy and so, so lucky.

**Author's Note:**

> look me up on [tumblr](http://redblooded-disadvantage.tumblr.com/) for stale meta n fresh memes


End file.
